


goes without saying

by lucigucci



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AFAB Asra (The Arcana), Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucigucci/pseuds/lucigucci
Summary: (goes without saying by brendan maclean)No, something fishy is going on here.You pause at the counter, waiting, listening. “Master!” you shout.There’s a sound like a stifled gasp before he calls back, weakly, “yes?”“Should I use the pewter or the granite?”“Uh-- p-pewter should work-- just fine--”“Are you alright? You sound like you’re in pain.”“What-- no, no, I’m fine! Just-- keep concentrating, like I taught you!”He clearly isn’t in a talking mood, you just can’t quite figure out why. In the meantime, you gather the necessary ingredients from behind the shop counter, pouring a few dried leaves of mugwort into the mortar and beginning to grind.There are suspicious sounds coming from upstairs. Muffled whimpering… the susurrus of blankets… labored breathing…Wait. He isn’t--is he?
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Asra (The Arcana)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 190





	goes without saying

You can’t sleep.

You aren’t entirely sure why. All the pieces are here. A thunderous summer downpour beats on the roof of the shop, clouding your ears with pleasant whitenoise. The room smells of tuberose and lily from the incense burning near the window. Beside you, half tangled in sheets and half exposed to the sticky air, is your master, illuminated only by the single candle you lit a few minutes ago. As usual he looks peaceful and relaxed. However, there’s a pleased smile playing across his lips, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s dreaming about.

He shifts in his sleep, making your breath catch in your throat. One of his hands twitches, fingers curling around something invisible, and his smile widens.

It’s so hard to keep from reaching out to touch him. Though the two of you share the same bed, you know damn well it would be weird as all hell if he knew you were watching him sleep. After all, he’s still your master, and you’re still his student.

His frosted white eyelashes flutter. “Ahh… good… boy...” he slurs.

Your heart skips at his words. Asra raises a sleepy hand to his mouth and runs the pads of his fingers around his lips. His tongue darts out to lap at his own skin. Another hand slowly, slowly, drags itself under the blankets, suspiciously close to his pajama shorts. 

Look away. Look away. He wouldn’t want you looking.

His fingers slip under the hem of his shorts. “Myyy… mmm…” He stretches his head back, squirming as much as he can in the bedsheets. “Good… feels… good…”

Why aren’t you ignoring him? Your eyes are fixated on him like they’re glued to his body and no matter how you try you can’t seem to pull away.

“Oh--! Don’t… stop… don’t…” Asra almost giggles with pleasure. His free hand is now twitching and open next to his head as though he’s begging you to grasp it. “Nngh-- darling!”

You can’t take it anymore. You throw the covers off your body, trying not to disturb the sleeping Asra, and climb out of bed, taking the candle on your nightstand with you to make some tea. If you’re far enough away maybe the rain will drown out his musical voice.

He always tells you that tea is the cure for everything, so why can’t it cure you of your obsessive attraction to him?

As you scoop a spoonful of leaves into your favorite strainer, you hear a rustling behind you. “You’re up early,” Asra mumbles.

“Uh. Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah… I’m sorry to hear that.” A short silence falls between you. Does he know that you heard him? Is he searching for some kind of apology? You’re about to gather your courage and ask him when he beats you to the punch and asks, “would you, er, be a dear and fetch me something from the shop downstairs?”

You do a double take. The kettle in your hand nearly drops. “Oh. Uh, sure, Master. What do you need?”

He seems to be fishing around for an idea for a few seconds. “Erm… how about… oh! Mugwort! Yes! Yes, I’d like you to grind some up and mix it with a pinch of moonstone dust. I’ll administer it to you when you’re done and it should help you get to sleep.”

The two of you lock eyes for a moment. It’s difficult to make out his face in the darkness, but his eyes reflect the candlelight just enough. You hope you aren't blushing too hard. “O-okay. Thank you, Master.”

“And, please, take your time. Please.”

“Alright…?”

“Alright. Well. Off you go.”

You quirk your eyebrow as you turn away to light a second candle and begin your descent down the stairs. That was probably the weirdest interaction you’ve ever had with Asra, and not only because you were watching him masturbate mere moments prior. Asra is always keen to take care of you. He would normally have simply risen from bed to make quick work of the mugwort concoction and let you rest.

No, something fishy is going on here. 

You pause at the counter, waiting, listening. “Master!” you shout.

There’s a sound like a stifled gasp before he calls back, weakly, “yes?”

“Should I use the pewter or the granite?”

“Uh-- p-pewter should work-- just fine--”

“Are you alright? You sound like you’re in pain.”

“What-- no, no, I’m fine! Just-- keep concentrating, like I taught you!”

He clearly isn’t in a talking mood, you just can’t quite figure out why. In the meantime, you gather the necessary ingredients from behind the shop counter, pouring a few dried leaves of mugwort into the mortar and beginning to grind. 

There are suspicious sounds coming from upstairs. Muffled whimpering… the susurrus of blankets… labored breathing…

Wait. He isn’t-- _is he_?

“Master?” you yell tentatively.

One of the distant moans is bitten back. “Y-yes?” he replies.

“What were you dreaming about before I woke you up?”

“I-- well, I-- I don’t quite remember--”

“You were talking to someone. A man.”

“How is the mugwort coming?” he retorts, a little too quick to be normal.

You tap the pestle against the stone a few times to shake off the excess. “I’m done,” you tell him. “Should I bring it up?”

“No!” he yelps. “Nonono not yet! I, er-- I need to-- um-- fix the blankets?”

“That’s alright, Master, I don’t mind. I’ll just wait down here.” You sit down on the bottom stair, mortar in your hands, craning your head to try to catch a glimpse of him in case your suspicion is true.

He must know you moved closer to him. The noises are almost completely muffled now in what you can only assume to be his pillow, so all you can make out are the telltale sounds of him shifting on the mattress. 

Oh, but it is easy, far too easy to imagine him right now. You lean your head back against the banister. What color are the lips of his pussy? Are they pink from stimulation? And who is he thinking of, and why can’t you get the thought out of your head that maybe, just maybe, he’s moaning _your_ name into his pillow? Your fingers clench around the mortar as heat spreads through your core. No, that’s ridiculous. You’re his apprentice not his lover.

At last, you can make out another whimper, a long and drawn out one, too loud to be stifled. You lick your lips. “C-come up!” he shouts down to you.

You stand up, a little shaky, and try to slow your steps as you climb. When you reach the landing you see that he has lit another candle and is sitting up in bed. One of the blankets is hiding his lower half from view. He offers you a confident smile and beckons for you to come closer, which you do. “Ah, it’s perfect,” he says, trailing a finger through the pile of mugwort dust. “Now the moonstone. I should have a bit in the cupboard next to the rock salt.”

“Was it a good dream?” you whisper.

His face, already flushed, even in the dim light, reddens still more. “Oh. My-- my dream. Yes, it was a good dream.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Yes. Good. Moonstone.”

“Moonstone.” You leave the mortar on the bed with him and dart to the cupboard to fetch the jar of powdered moonstone. You shouldn’t have brought it up again, what the fuck is wrong with you? When you bring it back to him, he measures out a steady pinch-- it isn’t fair how calm he looks-- and stirs the mixture with his index finger.

“Is it the nightmares?” he murmurs to you. “Did they come back, my dear?”

You shake your head. “I’m not sure why I couldn’t sleep… it could be the rain, I guess.”

“I suppose it could be. Come back to bed, now.” He lifts up the covers for you to slide under, which you do. They are warm and smell like him. “There. Comfy? Stay there while the medicine does its work and I’ll finish making your tea.”

You close your eyes obediently as you feel a cool breeze wind around your face, trailing sweet-smelling particles in its wake. The effect is almost instantaneous. Sleep wraps its warm arms around you and tries to tug you into unconsciousness. “Master,” you slur.

A gentle hand runs through your hair. “Yes?”

“Next time… use a silencing spell…”

“Oh. Oh Gods. I-- I can explain--”

But before you can reply, you’re already asleep.


End file.
